Feeds:
Posts
Comments

A Chronological Subjective Journey Through His Oeuvre,

Punctuated with Excerpts from Truffaut by Truffaut*

  • Baisers Volés (Stolen Kisses, 1968)
  • La Sirène du Mississippi (Mississippi Mermaid, 1969)
  • L’Enfant Sauvage (The Wild Child, 1970)

Once again, we begin with the latest installment of Truffaut’s semi-autobiographical cycle about Antoine Doinel (Jean-Pierre Léaud), to which it must have been a relief to return after reportedly clashing with his leading man or (now former) cinematographer on his last three features; Raoul Coutard’s replacement, Denys Clerval, would shoot his next film as well.  Truffaut collaborated on the script with Claude de Givray, who was an assistant director on Les Mistons and his co-writer on several projects he did not direct, and Bernard Revon, both of whom would re-up with Doinel for Bed and Board.  By the way, I must sheepishly admit to only recently realizing that the woman Antoine encounters in the street with her husband, Albert Tazzi (Jean-François Adam), is Colette, who is uncredited, unidentified by name in the film, and played by the returning Marie-France Pisier at a far younger age than I would know her from Chanel Solitaire.

The fact that this is my longtime favorite among Truffaut’s work, an Oscar and Golden Globe nominee for Best Foreign-Language Film, makes it difficult for me to write about with any kind of objectivity.  I believe it was the second one I ever saw—courtesy of a college course—after a library screening of Fahrenheit 451 back in the pre-VCR era, as my love for science fiction far predated my interest in the French New Wave (or, more precisely, in Truffaut, since Godard et al. have never had a similar effect on me).  Typical of the cycle, it is not plot-heavy, but has three predominant narrative threads:  Antoine’s hilariously inept search for gainful employment, most notably with the Blady detective agency; his wooing of Christine Darbon (Claude Jade) and, as with Colette, warm relationship with her father, Lucien (Daniel Ceccaldi from The Soft Skin), and mother (Claire Duhamel); and his obsession with Mme. Fabienne Tabard (Delphine Seyrig).

Perhaps inevitably, the film’s original soundtrack—Antoine Duhamel’s first of four consecutive scores for Truffaut—is overshadowed by its signature tune, “Que reste-t-il de nos amours? [What remains of our love?],” which you just know I’m firing up repeatedly on YouTube as I write this, although misting up makes it a little hard to see the keyboard.  Legendary singer-songwriter Charles Trenet’s 1942 hit, from whose lyrics Truffaut took his highly appropriate title, was popularized Stateside in 1957 by Keely Smith, retitled “I Wish You Love” with new lyrics, while I know at least one reader will perk up significantly when he learns, as I just did, that according to Wikipedia, “His romantic ballad ‘La Mer’ was reworked by Bobby Darin into the million-selling smash ‘Beyond the Sea.’”  I’m a man of many nicknames, but the Pavlovian opening of my tear ducts in response to this film and song epitomizes my Maudlin Man moniker.

They are not exactly tears of joy, because I now know that Antoine and Christine’s marriage is a rocky one that will ultimately end in divorce thanks to Antoine’s infidelity, and while he can be quite charming, I would never hold him up as an admirable character; Madame BOF finds him completely insufferable and, having dutifully sat through and hated this film, vowed never to watch another Doinel.  They are not exactly tears of sorrow, because this is easily Truffaut’s most lighthearted film to date, one that I mistakenly thought for years was more representative of his oeuvre, with the quirky, humorous touches that characterize his work.  I cry over the simple, girl-next-door beauty of Jade—who for me represents a quintessential Frenchwoman in the best possible way, with whom I fall hopelessly in love every time I watch this picture—and over little touches like her taking his hand in a nightclub, or his silent proposal with a bottle-opener “ring.”

Dishonorably discharged from the army for being chronically AWOL, Antoine fulfills a vow that he will avail himself of a prostitute at a certain hour, then takes and loses a job as a hotel night clerk after being used as an unwitting pawn in a divorce scam by a representative of the Blady Agency, which soon hires him.  After various misadventures, he is assigned to be a “periscope,” working undercover as a stock boy when shoe-store owner Georges Tabard (Mich[a]el Lonsdale) hires the firm to find out why his staff detests him.  It says something about my love for this film that it transcends a reflexive aversion to Lonsdale, who set a new low for Bond villains as Hugo Drax in Moonraker (1979)—although I grew to respect him in films like Frankenheimer’s Ronin (1998)—and to Seyrig, the star of the late Alain Resnais’s Last Year at Marienbad (1961) but, for me, a grim reminder of her bisexual vampire in the nasty Daughters of Darkness (1971), and a far distant second to Jade.

Antoine’s personal and professional fortunes are constantly intertwined.  It is through his work at the store that he meets and becomes fixated on Fabienne, and when asked while checking in to describe her, he rhapsodizes to such a degree that he is curtly told, “What we want is a report, not a declaration of love!”  His conflicted feelings about the women in his life manifest themselves in a strange scene—which I won’t even attempt to explain—where Antoine stares into the mirror while repeating their names and his over and over.  After he sends her a love letter, Fabienne appears at his apartment for a never-to-be-repeated tryst to get it out of both their systems, but because of the surveillance, Antoine must admit the meeting and is fired again.  Finally, when he becomes a TV repairman, Christine (who had resisted when he “stole a kiss” from her in her parents’ cellar) disables their set as a pretext to summon him, and the two are next seen sleeping in bed together.

Truffaut shot the movie while embroiled in the controversy over the firing of the Cinémathèque Française’s Henri Langlois (to whom it is dedicated).  “When my films are finished, I realize that they are always sadder than I would have liked.  This one…I wanted to be funny.  I don’t know if it is, but in any case we ourselves had fun making it.  When I began to make films…I thought at first that there were funny things and sad things.  Then I tried to pass abruptly from a sad thing to a funny thing.  Today what strikes me as most interesting is to work in such a way that the same thing can be funny and sad all at once.  That is one of the reasons why I asked Charles Trenet’s authorization to use [his lyric] as the title…I think Trenet is the one who has found the truest poetical equilibrium, who has best managed to mingle gravity and frivolity in his songs.  Stolen Kisses is quite simply a film that hopes to resemble a song,” as he wrote in the press book.

I hadn’t realized that Truffaut’s two Cornell Woolrich adaptations were made with only one film in between, and although the fatalistic nature of the second (whose title seems more appropriate in French, La Sirène du Mississippi, given the sinister connotations of “siren”) makes it not too surprising that—according to New York Magazine critic David Edelstein’s TCM introduction—it was his biggest financial failure, I think it deserved better.  The first of his features on which Truffaut had sole screenwriting credit, it updates Woolrich’s 1880 New Orleans setting to the contemporary French island of Réunion in the Indian Ocean, to which the ship Mississippi brings a woman (Catherine Deneuve) claiming to be Julie Roussel, the mail-order bride of Louis Mahé (Jean-Paul Belmondo, whom I have loathed since seeing Breathless).  She doesn’t match the photo that Julie had sent him, but Louis clearly falls for her at first sight and marries her anyway.

She says she sent a photo of a neighbor to ensure that Louis did not marry her for her looks, while he wrote that he was the foreman and not the owner of a cigarette factory, because he did not want to be married for his money.  After “Julie” cleans out his bank accounts and disappears, Berthe Roussel (Nelly Borgeaud) arrives, and we learn that her sister was murdered aboard the ship by Richard (Roland Thénot), who later abandoned accomplice Marion Vergano, so they hire private detective Comolli (Michel Bouquet, like Lonsdale an alumnus of The Bride Wore Black) to find the impostor.  In France, Louis spots Marion in some news footage—precisely paralleling the source novel for Vertigo—locates and confronts her, but is unable to kill her; Louis shoots Comolli when he gets too close and refuses to take a bribe, and the couple’s peripatetic future as fugitives seems bleak, despite Louis forgiving Marion for trying to poison him and her declaration of love.

I’d only seen this once before, and that almost certainly in the 1999 “Tout Truffaut” retrospective at the recently redeemed Film Forum, yet it seemed surprisingly familiar.  It’s true that at various times I have also read the 1947 source novel, Waltz into Darkness (I was honored to be asked to weigh in on whether Viking Penguin, where I was then employed, should reissue it, which they did), and seen the 2001 remake, Michael Cristofer’s Original Sin, notorious for its steamy scenes between Antonio Banderas and Angelina Jolie—talk about something for everyone—but I think there’s more to it than that, perhaps something distinctively Woolrichian.  His future biographer, Francis M. Nevins, Jr., wrote in Twentieth Century Crime and Mystery Writers that “love dies while the lovers go on living, and [he] excels at showing the corrosion of a relationship between two people,” plus the theme of imposture recurs in his oft-filmed I Married a Dead Man (1948).

“I read [the novel] when I was doing the adaptation of The Bride Wore Black,” Truffaut told Le Monde in 1969.  “At that time, I actually read everything [he] wrote in order to steep myself in his work and to keep as close as possible to the novel, despite the unfaithfulness necessary in films.  I like to know thoroughly any writer whose book I transpose to the screen [as he had with Goodis and Bradbury]….My final screenplay was less an adaptation in the traditional sense than a choice of scenes.  With this film, I was finally able to realize every director’s dream:  to shoot in chronological order a chronological story that represents an itinerary….[The] shooting began on Réunion Island, continued in Nice, Antibes, Aix-en-Provence, Lyons, to finish in the snow near Grenoble.  The fact of respecting the chronology permitted me to ‘build’ the couple with precision….The Mermaid is above all else the tale of a degradation through love, of a passion.”

The Wild Child marked Truffaut’s first return to black and white since The Soft Skin, and the start of a long collaboration with Nestor Almendros, the Oscar-winning cinematographer of Terrence Malick’s Days of Heaven (1978), who would shoot the majority of his remaining films.  It is rare among his work in being based directly on fact—specifically, Dr. Jean Itard’s memoir Victor de l’Aveyron—rather than adapted from a literary source or, as in the case of The Soft Skin, merely inspired by actual events.  After reading a 1966 Le Monde review of a thesis by Lucien Malson, Truffaut considered Victor “the clearest and most instructive example” of a child growing up in isolation without any human contact, “studied at length and minutely by…Itard, who became interested in the boy immediately after his capture by hunters in the middle of a forest in the summer of 1798,” he wrote in an article on the making of the film for L’Avant-Scène du Cinéma.

Truffaut noted that in crafting the screenplay with Jean Gruault (a veteran of Jules and Jim who has a small role as “Visitor at Institute”), “the main difficulty was in transposing a text actually consisting of two reports [by] Itard.  The first, dated 1801, was probably intended for the Académie de Médecine; the second, written in 1806, was designed to convince the Ministry of the Interior to renew the pension of Madame Guérin,” the housekeeper in whose care, as the film does not tell us, “Victor lived to the age of forty…doing little jobs and living in peace.”  To solve the problem, “we imagined that Dr. Itard, instead of writing these reports, had kept a daily diary.  This gives the story the allure of a personal chronicle and preserves the author’s style, which is simultaneously scientific, philosophical, moralistic, humanistic, in turns lyrical and familiar.”  He steeped himself in the reports, which is hardly surprising in light of his decision to play Itard.

Unlike Orson Welles, whom he greatly admired, Truffaut only occasionally starred in his own work, and rarely acted outside it—Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977) being the notable exception—although he was a talented actor; he cast himself out of practicality rather than vanity.  “It seemed to me that the essential job in this film was not to manage the action but to concern oneself with the child.  I therefore wanted to…deal with him myself and thus avoid going through an intermediary….I would have been saying all day to some gentleman:  ‘Now take the child, make him do that, lead him there,’ and that was what I wanted to do on my own….From the day I decided to play Itard the film took on for me a truly complete and definitive raison d’être.  From this experience I don’t retain the impression of having played a role, but simply of having directed the film ‘in front of’ the camera and not ‘behind,’ as usual.”

Truffaut abandoned the idea of finding someone like a young Nureyev to play Victor, “because the little dancers I saw were really just too sweet.  [So] I went to the opposite idea, which was to go back a little to The Mischief Makers…where I directed five boys from Nîmes, of whom one or two really had something savage about them….I should have liked to find a little boy along those lines.  I sent my assistant to watch when school let out, at Arles, Nîmes, Marseilles, etc.  It was in a street in Montpellier that she noticed, questioned, and photographed among others a little gypsy boy, Jean-Pierre Cargol.”  His performance is so extraordinary that it’s a shame his only other credit was Geoffrey Reeve’s now-obscure Alistair MacLean adaptation Caravan to Vaccares (1974).  As Truffaut told Radio-Canada in 1971, “for the first time, I identified with the adult, the father, so much so that when the editing was finished I dedicated [it] to Jean-Pierre Léaud…”

The simple but absorbing narrative follows Victor—believed to have been left for dead in the forest seven or eight years earlier, at the age of three or four—as he is transferred to the Institute for Deaf-Mutes in Paris, where he is exhibited like a freak, and then fortunately comes to the attention of Itard (1774-1838), who is researching deafness and takes charge of the boy in his own house near Paris.  Although Victor was never able to speak, Itard demonstrated that he was neither deaf nor retarded, and the film effectively depicts both his education and the bond of affection that grows among him, Itard, and the good-hearted Madame Guérin (Françoise Seigner).  Eschewing an original score, Truffaut had Duhamel arrange and conduct the Vivaldi Concerto in C Major for Mandolin and Strings that was later popularized in Robert Benton’s Kramer vs. Kramer (1979), which coincidentally garnered Almendros another Oscar nomination.

Addendum:  I see Film Forum will begin repeating its “Tout Truffaut” festival on March 28.  Coincidence?

To be continued.

Back to Part II.

*Text and documents compiled by Dominique Rabourdin; translated from the French by Robert Erich Wolf (New York: Abrams, 1987).

INSITE for Sore Eyes

Whenever I think about the International Network of Somewhere in Time Enthusiasts, I remark upon the fact that INSITE (also the title of their handsome quarterly journal)—among the very few fan societies devoted to a single motion picture—would not, indeed literally could not, have existed without the late Richard Matheson.  Although the 1980 film it celebrates was of necessity a collaborative effort, and INSITE joyfully recognizes the contributions of all involved, both the screenplay and the 1975 novel upon which it was based, originally published as Bid Time Return, sprang from the mind of one man.  So it’s no surprise that the lead story in the First Quarter 2013 issue of INSITE (Vol. 24 #1) is a loving tribute to Matheson, his career, and his passing, complete with a smiling cover photo in full period regalia from his cameo as the “Astonished Man.”

The issue includes a wealth of Matheson family photos and heartfelt reminiscences from INSITE President/Editor Jo Addie, who kindly solicited my modest contribution; founder Bill Shepard, whose book The Somewhere in Time Story: Behind the Scenes of the Making of the Cult Romantic Fantasy Motion Picture Jo revised for the 25th anniversary of the film’s release; and its respective producer and director, Stephen Simon (aka Deutsch) and Jeannot Szwarc.  The only sour note for me, through no fault of INSITE, is that the MSN obit (reprinted with those from USA Today and The Los Angeles Times) perpetuates the myth that Richard appeared as a senator in The Godfather Part II.  I presume that canard, which I have long sought to eradicate, sprang from the fact that Roger Corman, for whom Richard wrote several scripts, did have such an uncredited cameo and/or that X-Files creator Chris Carter paid homage to his Night Stalker influences with the character of “Senator Richard Matheson” (Raymond J. Barry).

In a bittersweet juxtaposition, the remainder of the issue is devoted to an event that epitomizes Matheson’s enduring legacy:  the world premiere of the Somewhere in Time musical at the Portland (Oregon) Center Stage on May 31, 2013, which his final illness prevented him from attending.  Produced by Tony Award-winning Broadway veteran Ken Davenport, who joined in the INSITE tributes, the show has music by Doug Katsaros and lyrics by Amanda Yesnowitz, and was a longstanding dream of Richard’s; before granting them the theatrical rights in 2006, he had pursued his own script version, with songs written by Duel composer Billy Goldenberg and lyricist Harry Shannon.  The show is apparently based as much upon the novel as on the film, and although the consensus seems to be that it needs a somewhat stronger score, we can hope it moves toward Richard’s cherished hope of a Broadway production.

Profuse thanks to Jo, as always, for her support and generosity.

A Chronological Subjective Journey Through His Oeuvre,

Punctuated with Excerpts from Truffaut by Truffaut*

  • Antoine et Colette (Antoine and Colette, 1962)
  • La Peau Douce (The Soft Skin, 1964)
  • Fahrenheit 451 (1966)
  • La Mariée Etait en Noir (The Bride Wore Black, 1967)

Truffaut returned to his cinematic alter ego, Antoine Doinel, with Antoine and Colette, the first segment of the anthology film L’Amour à Vingt Ans (Love at Twenty), also containing episodes directed by Italy’s Renzo Rossellini (son of Roberto, whose assistant Truffaut had once been), Japan’s Shintarō Ishihara, Germany’s Marcel Ophüls, and Poland’s Andrzej Wajda.  In 1971, he told Radio-Canada’s Aline Desjardins, “there was a private thing happened, a sentimental episode that ended badly, that I filmed later in Love at Twenty….[Y]ou see Antoine Doinel falling in love with a young girl he meets at the Jeunesses Musicales [young people’s concerts], trying to push his way into her life by force…We can say that that story was really lived; it wasn’t the Jeunesses Musicales but, obviously, the Cinémathèque, and the whole thing finally led me to go off into the army” (which we will see Antoine leaving at the start of Stolen Kisses).

Narration tells us that following his escape in The 400 Blows, Antoine “was caught and placed in another center under stricter surveillance [where] a young psychologist…took an interest in his case, and he was finally released on probation”; now 17—the film’s title notwithstanding—and working for a record company, he has “finally realized his adolescent dream:  to live on his own, earn his own keep, and depend only on himself.”  Then, into this “solitary, independent life” comes Colette (Marie-France Pisier, eulogized here when she drowned in her swimming pool at 66 in 2011), with whom he is understandably smitten when he first sees her while attending a concert with his friend René (Patrick Auffay, recreating a role seen in flashback).  Despite taking a room directly across from her and being “adopted” by her mother (Rosy Varte) and stepfather (François Darbon), Antoine glumly watches as Colette dates Albert Tazzi (Jean-François Adam).

“I don’t like my films, except for the sketch in Love at Twenty,” which was heavily improvised, as Truffaut later told Cinéma 67.  He had initially been reluctant to revisit Antoine, for fear of seeming to take advantage of the success of The 400 Blows, but “since then I’ve learned that you should never give up an idea for such exterior and secondary reasons as reasons of outward appearances.  You have to do exactly and intensely whatever you really want to do….I did it in a carefree moment:  Jules and Jim had just come out and had been very well received, which was why I went to work on Love at Twenty in a really cheerful mood.”  Yet “when [it] was finished, we realized that it was a melancholy film, sometimes even desperate,” he wrote in the press book, noting that the producer, Pierre Roustang, “not only gave me a free hand but also proposed that I make the choice, with him, of the young foreign directors who would do the other stories.”

The credits of The Soft Skin, a news-inspired original screenplay about the tragic affair between Pierre Lachenay (Jean Desailly) and Nicole (Françoise Dorléac), contain the names of two key collaborators:  Georges Delerue, a prolific Oscar-winner for A Little Romance (1979) who scored about half of his work, from Shoot the Piano Player on, and Jean-Louis Richard.  The latter had had an uncredited role as a café customer in Jules and Jim, and would appear in several other Truffaut films but, more important, served as his co-writer on not only all three features covered here but also the Jeanne Moreau vehicle Mata-Hari (aka Mata Hari, Agent H21, 1964), which Richard directed and Truffaut co-produced.  In fact, they had already been working together on adapting the late Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 (1953), with many delays accounting for a two-year gap between Jules and Jim and The Soft Skin, as Truffaut related to Guy Allombert in 1963.

“I had bought the rights during the euphoria of The 400 Blows success.  I did not manage to make that film in France:  I had to have color, as the subject called for.  On the other hand, I couldn’t have a female star:  I had two women’s roles and I didn’t want one to be more important than the other.  Nor, in a science fiction film, could I have a foreign accent.  I didn’t want a known actress and, with only one name actor—I had thought of Charles Aznavour and of [Jean-Paul] Belmondo—and a subject that was a little baffling, I wasn’t able to make the film, the first European science fiction film.  I then had some good luck in my misery (the rights cost me really a lot, and we had done three scripts…), I found an American producer who bought everything, script, rights to the novel, and who signed a contract with me to make the film the next year in New York.  So before making [that one] I wanted to do a film in France, whence The Soft Skin.”

An iconoclast to the end, I am as puzzled by the failure of The Soft Skin—which Truffaut called “a flop”—as I am by the popularity of Jules and Jim, and it’s interesting that a director notorious for bedding most of his leading ladies (his marriage to Madeleine Morgenstern, who bore him two daughters, lasted only from 1957 to ’65) made two successive features in which affairs lead to death.  He accurately and succinctly described The Soft Skin as “the story, highly detailed, of an adultery,” set in motion when publisher Pierre sees Nicole, an air hostess, en route to a lecture in Lisbon.  “From that moment on, everything he does is the worst.  He goes off on a trip [to Rheims], he takes her with him, he puts her up in that second-class hotel, he makes gaffes all the way…That character pleased me, as an emotional person and as a man who, every time he encounters a difficulty, chooses the worst solution.  He’s a blunderer,” Truffaut told Cinéma 67.

Pierre’s portrayal was doubtless made no more sympathetic by a reportedly rocky relationship with Desailly, and they never worked together again, but Truffaut was delighted with Dorléac (the older sister of his future leading lady, Catherine Deneuve), who died in a car crash at 25 in 1967.  “What interests me most,” Truffaut said in another 1963 interview, “is the character of the betrayed woman [Franca (Nelly Benedetti)]:  she is always made the unattractive character, but here she will be considered in the most anticonventional way possible…”  Having depicted the affair in clinical detail, he creates Hitchcockian suspense by cross-cutting between the Lachenays as events draw toward their conclusion; Pierre tells Nicole of his separation, learns that she wants to end the affair, and—at the behest of Franca’s friend Odile (Paule Emanuele)—calls to suggest a reconciliation, barely missing Franca as she heads for the restaurant with a rifle and shoots him.

As it turned out, the divisive Fahrenheit—one of my favorite Truffaut films, despite being loathed by many a fellow Bradbury fan—was made not in America but in England, where usual suspects Delerue and Raoul Coutard, a veteran of Breathless who shot all of his other films from Piano Player through The Bride Wore Black, were replaced by Bernard Herrmann and Nicolas Roeg, respectively.  The former, whose credits included Welles’s Citizen Kane (1941), Robert Wise’s The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (1976), The Twilight Zone, and four of the late Ray Harryhausen’s films, is best known for his work with Hitchcock, one of the all-time great director/composer collaborations.  Roeg had photographed Roger Corman’s The Masque of the Red Death (1964), while his wildly eclectic directorial career encompassed Walkabout (1971), which ranks very high in my personal pantheon, and Don’t Look Now (1973).

This was also Truffaut’s first film in English and in color, as well as his only foray into the genre where Godard had recently dabbled with Alphaville, and the disparate takes (which, surprisingly, Madame BOF loves) these pioneers of the French New Wave had on SF are fascinating indeed.  For his leading man, Truffaut ultimately turned to the known quantity of Oskar Werner from Jules and Jim, whom I first got to like in this film and Martin Ritt’s great John le Carré adaptation, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (1965); he also solved the problem of balancing the two women’s roles by casting Julie Christie, the lovely future star of Don’t Look Now, in both of them.  Werner is Guy Montag, whose job as an ironically named Fireman is to burn books in an unspecified future where they are banned—the title refers to the temperature at which book paper burns—with Christie as his spoiled, vacuous wife, Linda, and the young woman who introduces him to those forbidden literary joys, Clarisse.

When I interviewed Bradbury for Outré, he called this “a terrible mistake.  There’s supposed to be a 16-year-old girl…who lives on the same street with Montag…You’ve got Julie Christie playing her character, which is all wrong, because she’s too old.  You want to have a naive, sappy girl who teaches Montag more about books than he can teach himself.  The irony and the beauty of it is that this…lovely little dumb-smart girl…becomes his teacher, and he begins to wake up to what he’s been doing.”  Deeply shaken when a woman (Bee Duffell, so memorable in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, 1975) immolates herself rather than be separated from her books, Montag reads a passage from a novel to Linda and her “zombie” friends, upsetting them, and sees Clarisse—now a fugitive—share the Book Woman’s fate in a vivid dream sequence that is an obvious visual and musical homage to the 1958 Hitchcock/Herrmann masterpiece, Vertigo.

Montag helps Clarisse find and destroy a list of like-minded people, and before she leaves to join a group that memorizes volumes for posterity, he relates his plan to plant books in the homes of his fellow Firemen and denounce them, destroying the system from within.  Linda denounces Montag, whose next call turns out to be his own house, and after incinerating the Captain (Cyril Cusack), he joins the Book People, watching on television as an anonymous man is hunted down and killed in his place.  Said Bradbury, “the special effects…were really bad, the men flying through the air [as they seek Montag like black bees]—completely unbelievable.  The best part of the film is the last reel…It’s magical, it’s beautiful, it’s moving.  I cry every time I see it, because it’s a combination of cinematography, atmosphere, music—[a] terrific score—and acting, and everything in that last reel is perfection.  So the film ends with incredible beauty…”

Truffaut wrote that “my first aim was to bring out the qualities of visual invention in [the] novel.  My second aim was to attempt this dosage:  to film fantastic things as if they were everyday, everyday things as if they were fantastic, and to mingle one with the other.”  Roeg’s ravishing palette, naturally heavy on reds and oranges, combines with the art direction of Syd Cain—a key contributor to the James Bond series—to create a look that eschews rapidly dating futurism for a kind of “retro-futurism,” anticipating Michael Radford’s 1984 (1984).  The one overtly futuristic setting was an exterior of a French monorail shot near Orléans, but Truffaut uses devices such as slow- and reverse-motion to increase the film’s otherworldly feeling; in one delightfully bizarre shot, while Montag and Clarisse visit the school from which she has been ominously dismissed, his colleague Fabian (Anton Diffring)—who constantly spies on him—observes, unseen, in drag.

Truffaut and Werner (who, ironically, died two days after him in 1984) became bitterly divided over the interpretation of Montag; Werner replaced Terence Stamp when the latter dropped out at the eleventh hour, concerned that Christie’s dual role would overshadow his own, and unlike Diffring—seen in my favorite film, Where Eagles Dare (1968)—he was not dubbed, despite his heavily accented English.  Truffaut was back on literal and metaphorical home turf with his next project, shooting in France and adapting another noir novel with familiar faces behind (Richard, Coutard) and in front of (Moreau, Brialy) the camera.  The fact that Rear Window (1954) was also based on the work of noir legend Cornell Woolrich, who published The Bride Wore Black under his pen name of William Irish, is one aspect that makes this perhaps his most Hitchcockian work, as is carrying over Herrmann from Fahrenheit 451 in their second and final collaboration.

The film is basically a quintet of set pieces in each of which the title character, Julie Kohler, kills a man, making sure he knows her identity, e.g., she pushes Bliss (Claude Rich) from his balcony during a party when he tries to retrieve her windblown scarf; lures Coral (Michel Bouquet) to a rendezvous where she poisons him; and leaves Rene Morane (Michel Lonsdale) to suffocate in a sealed closet while his son, Cookie (Christophe Bruno), slumbers upstairs.  Flashbacks gradually reveal that she is avenging the death of her childhood sweetheart, David (Serge Rousseau), shot dead on the church steps after their wedding as the five fooled around with a loaded rifle across the street.  The film addresses neither how Julie tracks down the men—strangers drawn together on a single occasion, sharing only a predilection for guns and women (the latter ultimately their undoing), who fled, never to meet again—nor whether David’s accidental killing justifies theirs.

Julie clearly has her own idea of justice, leading her to call the police and clear Cookie’s teacher, Miss Becker (the striking Alexandra Stewart), as whom she posed, by providing details only the killer could know.  I don’t know how, or even if, the novel tackles any of these questions, yet in a sense, it doesn’t matter; we don’t turn to Cornell Woolrich for rigorous logic but for his fever-dream imagination and style, and Truffaut himself, obviously interested more in the effect than in explanations, begins to play with our expectations as Julie’s next target, Delvaux (Daniel Boulanger), is suddenly arrested for unrelated crimes, so she turns to the last on her list, artist Fergus (Charles Denner).  When she begins posing for him as the bow-wielding huntress (how apt!) Diana, we suspect how he will meet his end, yet for the first time, she seems hesitant after Fergus, anticipating Denner’s role as Truffaut’s The Man Who Loved Women, avows his amour.

I’ve now forgotten the exact sequence of events, but it is around this point that Truffaut uses maximum cinematic sleight of hand, misdirecting us with a subplot about how Fergus’s friend Corey (Brialy) remembers seeing Julie at Bliss’s party and tries to identify her.  Having watched in step-by-step detail as she dispatched each of her previous victims, we are genuinely surprised when Truffaut abruptly cuts back to Fergus lying dead with an arrow protruding from his body, and even more so when the seemingly relentless avenger leaves an incriminating mural of herself on the wall, which along with her attending the artist’s funeral leads to her arrest and confession, albeit without explanation.  But—as first-time viewer Madame BOF quickly deduced—it is all a means to an end, and as Julie, with knife concealed, delivers meals to inmates of the same prison where Delvaux is confined, we await the inevitable off-screen shriek as she finishes her mission.

Asked by Le Monde in 1968 if Hitchcock had influenced the film, Truffaut said, “Certainly for the construction of the story because, unlike the novel, we give the solution of the enigma well before the end [as in Hitch’s Vertigo]….Contrariwise, the desire to make the characters speak of everything else but the intrigue itself is decidedly not very Hitchcockian and more characteristic of a European turn of mind.”  In 1978, he called it “the only one I regret having made…I wanted to offer…Moreau something like none of her other films, but it was badly thought out.  That was a film to which color did an enormous lot of harm.  [A permanent rift with Coutard reportedly left Moreau sometimes directing the actors.]  The theme is lacking in interest:  to make excuses for an idealistic vengeance, that really shocks me….One should not avenge oneself, vengeance is not noble.  One betrays something in oneself when one glorifies that,” as he opined to L’Express.

To be continued.

Back to Part I.

*Text and documents compiled by Dominique Rabourdin; translated from the French by Robert Erich Wolf (New York: Abrams, 1987).

A Chronological Subjective Journey Through His Oeuvre,

Punctuated with Excerpts from Truffaut by Truffaut

 

  • Une Histoire d’Eau (A Story of Water, 1958)
  • Les Quatre Cents Coups (The 400 Blows, 1959)
  • Tirez sur la Pianiste (Shoot the Piano Player, 1960)
  • Jules et Jim (Jules and Jim, 1962)

Die-hard cinéastes will immediately recognize my title as an homage to writer-director François Truffaut’s seminal book-length interview with one of his idols (and, perhaps not surprisingly, my favorite director), Alfred Hitchcock, which is usually known simply as Hitchcock/Truffaut.  Not having had the luxury of interviewing Truffaut during his all-too-brief lifetime (1932-1984), I am using the next best thing:  my treasured copy of Truffaut by Truffaut (1985), the gorgeous coffee-table volume released in the U.S. by Abrams in ’87, and compiled by film journalist Dominique Rabourdin from a wide variety of Truffaut’s own writings about his life and work, published and previously unpublished.  In fact, it is the enforced brevity of Truffaut’s career—four short films and twenty-one features—that helped me decide to undertake this daunting project, although the precipitating event itself was the TCM Friday Night Spotlight series on Truffaut throughout July.

After Martin Scorsese mentioned in his column for the TCM monthly programming guide, Now Playing, that they were showing all but two of his features, I quickly determined that those two were among the handful of Truffaut films I already had, as part of either the permanent Bradley Video Library (BVL) or my usual tape-and-erase activity.  That meant that if I could successfully tape the remainder, I would actually have access to virtually his entire body of work all at once, an opportunity I have never had with any other filmmaker.  I knew I didn’t have it in me to write a separate post for every film, but quickly noticed that if I lumped in the two shorts they showed as well, those twenty-one features would divide neatly into seven posts; as soon as I reviewed the three-feature groupings, I knew I had made the right decision, because each, quite coincidentally, represents an almost perfect cross-section of the many moods, settings, and subjects of his work.

I am forced to skip over Une Visite (A Visit, 1954), which I’ve never seen, and Les Mistons (The Mischief Makers, 1957), which I caught at Film Forum in 1999 paired with Antoine and Colette, and have largely forgotten, but I can begin with his third short, A Story of Water, which I saw for the first time.  The fact that it is credited to both Truffaut and Jean-Luc Godard—whose work I usually despise, except for Alphaville: Une Étrange Aventure de Lemmy Caution (Alphaville: A Strange Adventure of Lemmy Caution, 1965), which even staunch Francophobe Madame BOF adores—is clearly cause for concern.  But, characteristically giving credit where it’s due, I must acknowledge that no matter how much I hated it myself, Godard’s À Bout de Souffle (Breathless, 1960) is not only regarded, along with Truffaut’s The 400 Blows, as the start of French cinema’s Nouvelle Vague (New Wave), but also based on a treatment by none other than Truffaut himself.

Truffaut told Cinéma 67 that the short “was made in an unforeseen way, like an experiment in improvisation.”  Wanting to take advantage of some flooding in the Paris region as a setting, he secured the backing of producer Pierre Braunberger, borrowed Claude Chabrol’s car, and headed for “the heart of the floods” with actors Caroline Dim and Jean-Claude Brialy, planning to film a romance about a young man with a boat who tries to help a girl get to class in Paris.  “We simply took off one weekend, and I must say that when we got there, there wasn’t much water to be seen already.  And the little water there was didn’t inspire us, because we saw people looking for boats to get their belongings out.  In the middle of all that, to rent a boat and carry on like crazy struck us all of a sudden as pretty indecent.  Well, I had brought along 600 meters of film and I brought back 600 meters of exposed film but it didn’t impress anyone but us and not even us.

“I said to Braunberger:  ‘You’ve lost 600 meters of film.  Keep it around.’  Jean-Luc Godard wanted to see those 600 meters and said:  ‘I can have fun making a montage.’  He made a montage of the film in his fashion, a commentary.  It was obvious, once the film was finished, that it wasn’t his or mine and that it would be logical for both to sign and to make a present of it to the producer who never made a fortune out of it.”  Godard reportedly removed much of the plot, foreshadowing my biggest objection to most of his subsequent films I’ve seen.  As it stands, the short depicts Brialy picking up the hitchhiking Dim in his car, intercut seemingly at random with aerial footage of the flooding (accompanied by a jarring percussion score), and narrated—including the spoken credits, anticipating Truffaut’s Fahrenheit 451—with a silly, stream-of-consciousness voiceover that invokes everyone from Raymond Chandler to Arthur Gordon Pym.

A Story of Water seems so little indicative of Truffaut’s later work (if not necessarily Godard’s), and apparently had so little effect on his career, that I will move without further ado to his debut feature, The 400 Blows, which began a semiautobiographical five-film cycle that follows his alter ego, Antoine Doinel (Jean-Pierre Léaud), over twenty years.  “Our intention, from the start, was to draw the portrait of a child who would not be an unhappy child nor a spoiled child but simply an adolescent,” he noted.  “If there was a thesis behind our film, it would be this:  adolescence leaves pleasant memories only for adults who can’t remember.  When you’re in that difficult age, the thirteenth year is your bad luck time…”  Throughout his career, from The Mischief Makers to The Wild Child and Small Change, Truffaut displayed an affinity for children, and even though Antoine is obviously the focus, The 400 Blows features sharply etched portraits of his classmates.

Although it depicts and evokes a variety of moods, the film is not sentimental, and particularly as a parent, I cringe inwardly watching Antoine misbehave at school, cut class, run briefly away from home, and impetuously tell the whopping lie that his mother, Gilberte (Claire Maurier), has died in order to explain his truancy.  Yet I also sympathize as he endures the benign neglect of his often squabbling parents in their impossibly cramped flat, and accidentally starts a fire after his youthful enthusiasm leads him unwisely to place a lighted candle inside a makeshift shrine to Balzac.  We particularly feel for Antoine as he witnesses Gilberte kissing another man when the two of them see, but do not acknowledge, each other while he is playing hooky; we later see him wrestling with the question of whether or not to tell Julien (Albert Rémy)—the generally good-natured man who, we discover, is really Antoine’s stepfather—and evidently deciding against it.

Truffaut wrote, “It was Jean Renoir himself who taught me that the actor playing a character is more important than that character, or, if you prefer, that you always have to sacrifice the abstract for the concrete.  No wonder then that Antoine Doinel, from the first day of shooting of The 400 Blows, moved away from me to become more like Jean-Pierre [who was then 14]….In the [sequels], I readjusted my sights and took into account the extraordinary phenomenon of the sympathy that Jean-Pierre Léaud always elicits from the public…”  The film contains a splendid sequence showing Antoine on one of those carnival rides where centrifugal force pins you to the wall as you rotate inside a giant drum, with alternating shots of the boy and from his perspective that capture the exuberance of the New Wave; in another, the hungry Antoine looks practically feral as he steals and guzzles a bottle of milk during his nighttime odyssey on the streets of Paris.

Truffaut has a Hitchcockian cameo at the carnival, and for luck, his future star, Jeanne Moreau, improvised a bit in which Brialy (from A Story of Water) brusquely supplants Antoine in helping her catch a dog.  In 1965, he said, “In the classroom scene, when the father turns up to slap his son [because of the lie], I had problems in crosscutting.  I knew I couldn’t get out of it without cutting back and forth a lot—because it was a rapid action—whereas in the film as a whole it was simply recording how things stood.  And there I knew I was obliged to ‘make cinema,’ and I thought of Hitchcock…”  Certainly one recalls the Master—who attributed his lifelong fear of the police to being briefly locked in a cell at his father’s behest—when Antoine is caught trying to return a stolen typewriter he was unable to fence, and eventually sent to an observation center for delinquent youth, from which he escapes to the nearby seashore in the celebrated final fadeout.

The 400 Blows “is not an autobiographical film completely,” Truffaut said.  Like Antoine, he was raised by, and given the surname of, a man who was not his biological father, and regularly cut school to attend the cinema; he later recalled, “When I was fourteen the theft of a typewriter got me into the hands of the cops.”  Yet he also noted that, “if I had wanted only to put my adolescence into images, I would not have asked Marcel Moussy to come and collaborate on the screenplay and to write the dialogue.  If the young Antoine Doinel sometimes resembles the turbulent adolescent I was, his parents are absolutely unlike mine, who were excellent, but, on the contrary, are more like the families who confronted each other on the TV program Si C’Etait Vous, which…Moussy was writing for Marcel Bluwal.  It was not only the television writer I admired in [him] but also the novelist of Sang chaud, which is the story of a little Algerian boy.”

Like Les Mistons, based on a short story from Maurice Pons’s Virginales, Truffaut’s next efforts, Shoot the Piano Player and Jules and Jim, were both literary adaptations, as are about half of his features.  In 1962, he told Cahiers du Cinéma, “when I’ve finished a screenplay, I think I know, if not the defects, at least the dangers from the point of view of clichés and conventions.  That guides me, gives me a kind of bias against those dangers during the filming….In Piano Player, where the danger lay in having a character who would be too moving, I did so much to bring out the egotistical side of the artist, his wish to cut himself off from the world, his cowardice, that I rendered him not very attractive, very hard, almost antipathetic.  That’s even, no doubt, one of the reasons why the film failed.  The same thing almost happened with Jules and Jim.  I didn’t want people to love Jeanne Moreau’s character [just] on principle, so I made it a little too harsh.”

About half of Truffaut’s adaptations fall into the genre his countrymen have labeled noir; he and Moussy based Piano Player on the novel Down There by David Goodis, whose work served as the source for films ranging from the Bogart/Bacall vehicle Dark Passage (1947) to those of fellow Frenchmen Henri Verneuil (The Burglars, 1971) and Jean-Jacques Beineix (The Moon in the Gutter, 1983).  The cinema confers a unique, occasionally dubious honor on novels such as Down There that are later reissued under, and sometimes known almost exclusively by, the titles of their screen incarnations.  I wish I had a copy of this one (or, for that matter, Dark Passage) so that I could kill two birds with one stone by doing a page-to-screen comparison, but that might make this post unwieldy or unbalanced, so perhaps it is best to focus solely on Truffaut’s second and last collaboration with Moussy, who contributed to the underrated Is Paris Burning? (1966).

Musician Charles Aznavour, whom I first saw as the ill-fated entertainer and inaugural victim in the 1974 version of Ten Little Indians, is again appropriately cast (although he does not sing here) as the titular pianist, Charlie Kohler, who plays in a seedy bar owned by Plyne (Serge Davri).  The credits are superimposed over a shot of the mechanism of Charlie’s upright piano as he plays a catchy yet somehow mournful ditty that always reminds me of the one on the pianola in Touch of Evil (1958), and since Truffaut is known to have admired Orson Welles—hey, who doesn’t?—this is perhaps no coincidence.  Charlie is raising the youngest of his three brothers, Fido (“Le jeune Richard Kanayan”), with the help of Clarisse, a neighbor and good-hearted prostitute who sometimes shares his bed, played by shapely Michèle Mercier, known to genre fans for Mario Bava’s Black Sabbath (1963) and Antonio Margheriti’s Web of the Spider (1971).

Fresh from the role of Julien Doinel, Albert Rémy was in the ensemble cast of Is Paris Burning? and worked with John Frankenheimer in The Train (1964) and Grand Prix (1966); he and Jean-Jacques Aslanian are Charlie’s other brothers, Chico and Richard, who have absconded with the loot after a falling-out with their partners in a heist.  The story is set in motion when Chico takes refuge from Momo (Claude Mansard) and Ernest (Daniel Boulanger) in the bar and Charlie helps him escape by delaying the hoods, who later kidnap Charlie and Léna (Marie Dubois), the barmaid for whom he has an unspoken attraction, in an effort to learn the location of the family farm, where they assume Chico and Richard are hiding out.  Léna’s quick thinking attracts the attention of the police to the car, enabling her and Charlie to get away, and when they go back to her place, Charlie learns that she already knows about his past, at which Chico had hinted earlier.

An extended flashback reveals that “Charlie” is really concert pianist Edouard Saroyan, whose deteriorating marriage to Thérèse (Nicole Berger) came to a head when she admitted having an affair with impresario Lars Schmeel (Claude Heymann) to further his career.  Moments after angrily walking out, Edouard reconsidered his love for her and the sacrifice she made, yet his stubbornness resulted in tragedy, and he returned to find that she had jumped from a window to her death.  Léna persuades Charlie to resume his career, but when they confront Pyne, who had sold their addresses to the hoods, the jealous publican attacks Charlie and is stabbed in the struggle; although witnesses clear Charlie by confirming that he killed Pyne in self-defense, Momo and Ernest have abducted Fido in the meantime, leading to a snowy climactic confrontation at the farm that leaves Léna shot dead and Charlie once again an emotionless shell.

This serious subject matter is punctuated by moments such as one hood swearing that his mother should die if he is not telling the truth, followed by a quick silent-movie-style shot of a woman keeling over.  “At the time of The 400 Blows and the euphoria of Cannes [where it won the Best Director award], I said to Braunberger there’s a book I want very much to do…I very much liked Aznavour also, so if we can put those two things together, let’s do it….We worked out for ourselves the ending in the snow,” Truffaut told Cinéma 67.  “Rémy,…Boulanger, and I sat around a table asking one another who was going to shoot whom.  On top of it, the cold got some of us and we decided to film with those who weren’t sick.  Finally we liquidated earlier those who had to get back to Paris.  All the ending was done just like that, with the slight reservation that, in spite of Braunberger’s amicable insistence, I had had it in mind to make…Dubois die…”

Truffaut alternated among various types of films, rarely if ever making two of the same kind in a row, and although Jules and Jim is also an adaptation, it could scarcely be more different from Piano Player, whose offbeat improvisational style apparently hurt its commercial prospects.  It is the story of the friendship between the two title characters, an Austrian and a Frenchman played respectively by Oskar Werner and Henri Serre, and how that friendship—which survives fighting on opposite sides in World War I—is affected by their love for free-spirited Catherine (Moreau).  She marries, moves to the Black Forest, and bears a child, Sabine (Sabine Haudepin), with Jules but, perpetually restless, carries on various affairs, including an on-again, off-again one with Jim, who lives with them at various points; the relationship overshadowed by their inability to have a child, Catherine finally drives off a broken bridge, killing herself and Jim to leave Jules all alone.

As I often say, “What a happy story,” and despite the delight it takes in depicting their more carefree days, I find I enjoyed it no more on a second viewing than on the first, remaining baffled by its enduring popularity.  In his foreword to the press book, Truffaut wrote, “I wanted to get back to the ‘tone’ of The 400 Blows:  a story recounted in half-tints, sad in its line but droll in its details.  If this film is successful [it earned Truffaut several international awards], it must resemble the book…and thus constitute a hymn to love, perhaps even a hymn to life”; he also recalled in 1979 that “thanks to Jeanne Moreau, [the filming] remains a luminous memory, the most luminous.”  Much as I admire Moreau and Werner, who both worked with Truffaut in other films, it doesn’t help that through no fault of theirs, I am at best indifferent and at worst averse to, in no particular order, the period setting, the Bohemian lifestyle, adultery, love triangles, and doomed romances.

Ironically, despite all of that, Jules and Jim is, in its basic concept if not its tone, very similar to a film that I dearly love, Ernst Lubitsch’s Design for Living (1933).  As a 21-year-old film critic, Truffaut had read the semi-autobiographical first novel by Henri-Pierre Roché, then 74, shortly after its publication in 1953, and quickly determined to adapt it someday; they exchanged ideas about his doing so in a lengthy correspondence that began when Roché saw a review of Edgar G. Ulmer’s The Naked Dawn (1955) in which Truffaut called Jules and Jim “one of the finest modern French novels…in which a woman loves two men equally during almost an entire lifetime, thanks to an aesthetic and new morality incessantly reconsidered.”  Urged by Truffaut during the making of The 400 Blows to read the book, Moreau immediately accepted the role of Catherine, a casting coup of which Roché expressed approval just days before his death in 1959.

As Truffaut noted in the press book, “I felt that [it] would be a difficult and ambitious film, and I didn’t as yet feel sure enough of myself to venture on it.  So I made two films before this one….At the start of ’61 I thought that the time had come to concretize this old dream.”  The script, co-written with Jean Gruault, makes extensive use of an omniscient narrator, Michel Subor.  Truffaut told Le Monde, “I kept an off-screen commentary throughout the film every time the text seemed to me impossible to transform into dialogue or too beautiful to be amputated.  I prefer, over the classical adaptation, which willy-nilly transforms a book into a theater piece, an intermediate form which alternates dialogue with reading aloud, which corresponds in a way to a filmed novel.  I think in any case that [this] is more a cinematic book than the pretext for a literary film….[I left] myself the option of improvising while shooting…”

To be continued.

I’ve never met Pierre V. Comtois, yet I think it would be fascinating to come face to face with a man who not only shares several of my obsessions, but also channels them into concrete form much more successfully than I do.  For example, he is the author of Marvel Comics in the 1960s and …1970s, which have been on my to-read list for an embarrassingly long time; both their presence and their duration on that metaphoric list are directly related to how completely my efforts on behalf of Marvel University have come to consume my life.  It is, however, his work under another of his many hats that led to this long-overdue post, namely as the editor and publisher of Fungi #21, the special 30th-anniversary issue of “The Magazine of Fantasy and Weird Fiction,” about which you can read much more on Pierre’s website here.

Dedicated to the late Richard Matheson—a name you may have encountered once or twice on this blog—the issue is literally as large as a phone book (for those of you old enough to remember what that was), making it impossible even to come close to doing justice to it in this post, so I hope I may be forgiven for taking a BOF-centric approach.  Knowing that Pierre planned a special section devoted to “The Group,” the circle of authors and screenwriters to which Matheson belonged, I granted him the use of the profiles I had partly distilled several years ago from my 1990s interviews with fellow members George Clayton Johnson, William F. Nolan, and the late Jerry Sohl.  Among other related goodies, he also re-presents “The House of Matheson,” an appreciation written by Gauntlet publisher Barry Hoffman for The Richard Matheson Companion (which I edited with Stanley Wiater and Paul Stuve), and Group scholar Christopher Conlon’s commendable overview, “Southern California Sorcerers,” another of the informal group’s many names.

Obviously, that’s just the tip of the iceberg, and the roster of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and artwork on display is mind-boggling indeed.  Included are the original stories that were adapted into two Twilight Zone episodes (Charles Beaumont’s “Elegy” and Lynn Venable’s “Time Enough at Last”) and the film Target Earth (Paul W. Fairman’s “Deadly City”).  Other names that jumped out at me from the table of contents as subjects and/or contributors:  Robert Bloch (represented by an interview, as is Zone writer Earl Hamner), H.P. Lovecraft (with an introduction to his letters), Nolan himself (the story “Small World”), Fu Manchu creator Sax Rohmer, and even Thongor of Lemuria (in a new adventure by Robert Price).

Okay, I’ll shut the hell up now so you can go and order the thing!

Canned Ham

In the unlikely event that you’ve ever wondered about the voice matching the face above, you need do so no longer.  Knowing of my high-school and collegiate stage experience, not to mention my general hamminess, my boss asked me if I would be willing to lend my dulcet tones to this two-minute promotional video for our sister division, the Easton Press.  It was a fun but surprisingly involved experience, which required breaking the brief script down into tiny sections that were recorded over and over until I got my inflections just the way they wanted…although I still disagree with their direction of the last line.  Just as Madame BOF predicted, surprisingly few of my friends and family recognized my voice when I experimentally sent it to them “cold.”

I am painfully aware of, and grimly resigned to, the fact that many of those among my friends and heavily Teutonic extended family are reflexive Francophobes.  But I would urge even those who are, and especially those who are not, if they are any true lovers of the cinema, to tune in to Turner Classic Movies this month for the second installment of their excellent new Friday Night Spotlight series, starting at 8:00 PM ET.  They’re featuring the work of François Truffaut, one of my all-time favorite filmmakers, the former Cahiers du Cinéma critic who spearheaded the French Nouvelle Vague (New Wave) as the writer-director of The 400 Blows (1959) and the co-writer of the dreaded Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless (1960).

TCM is showing all but two of the 21 features Truffaut directed, and if you do yourself a favor by dipping liberally into his oeuvre, you may find it more diverse than expected.  That’s the experience I had several years ago when frantically attending as much as I could of the comprehensive “Tout Truffaut” festival at New York’s Film Forum (which now won’t even deign to send me a printed schedule, and thus will no longer receive my longtime financial support, but that’s another rant).  Twenty-one features is a sadly small number for such a giant talent, and bespeaks both his criminally short life—he died at 52—and his productivity, averaging almost a film a year through Confidentially Yours (1983).

By way of encouragement, I’m taking the unusual step of enumerating TCM’s entire Truffaut schedule, and while it is beyond the scope of this post to editorialize on every film, I hope it will at least give you some idea of his impressive range.

They kick off on 7/5 with back-to-back showings of his semi-autobiographical Antoine Doinel series, in which we watch Jean-Pierre Léaud age 20 years as his alter ego.  Succeeding The 400 Blows are Antoine and Colette (a short that represents Truffaut’s contribution to the 1962 anthology film Love at Twenty), Stolen Kisses (1968, my personal favorite among his work), Bed and Board (1970), and Love on the Run (1979, both a continuation and a recap of the series, inspired by a marathon showing of the prior entries).  These are followed by the lesser-known but fascinating The Green Room (1978, inexplicably retitled The Vanishing Fiancee), a Henry James adaptation and one of several films in which Truffaut also acts, in which capacity he is best known to American audiences for Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977).

On 7/12, they focus on Truffaut’s noir adaptations, most notably those of Cornell Woolrich (aka William Irish):  The Bride Wore Black (1968), featuring Jeanne Moreau and a score by Hitchcock mainstay Bernard Herrmann, and Mississippi Mermaid (1969), with Breathless star Jean-Paul Belmondo (feh) and Catherine Deneuve, which—like the steamy Banderas/Jolie remake, Original Sin (2001)—was based on Waltz into Darkness.  In between they’re showing his swan song, Confidentially Yours, a black-and-white homage to Hitchcockian romantic thrillers, based on a book by Charles Williams; it stars Fanny Ardant, who gave birth to Truffaut’s daughter Joséphine about a year before he died, and French legend Jean-Louis Trintignant (’nuff said).  Topping it off are Such a Gorgeous Kid Like Me (1972), a black comedy from What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? author Henry Farrell, and his sophomore feature, Shoot the Piano Player (1960), which has celebrated signer Charles Aznavour in the title role and did double duty during last month’s Friday Night Spotlight segment devoted to noir author David Goodis.

TCM provides a mixed bag on 7/19, starting off with The Soft Skin (1964), a tale of adultery featuring Deneuve’s ill-fated elder sister, Françoise Dorléac, and two adaptations of books by Henri-Pierre Roché, both about romantic triangles:  Jules and Jim (1962), starring Oskar Werner and Moreau, and Two English Girls (1971), also with Léaud.  Next is a real rarity, A Story of Water (1961), a short co-directed with Godard, whose work—excepting Alphaville (1965)—I normally loathe; I have yet to see that or the next offering, The Woman Next Door (1981), with Gérard Depardieu and Ardant as dangerously obsessive lovers.  Finally, The Man Who Loved Women (1977) is one of my least favorite Truffaut films, a situation doubtless exacerbated by the reflected shame of the head-scratching eponymous 1983 Blake Edwards/Burt Reynolds/Julie Andrews/Kim Basinger remake.

Ending on a generally high note, 7/26 opens with Day for Night (1973), Truffaut’s love letter to filmmaking itself, in which he really stretches his range by playing a director, joined by Jacqueline Bisset and Léaud.  I’ve been slow to warm up to The Last Metro (1980), a tale of refugees and the Resistance during the Nazi occupation that stars Deneuve and Depardieu, but I loved The Wild Child (1970), the true story of a late-18th-century doctor (Truffaut) who tries to educate a boy raised by wolves.  As a perfect capstone, Isabelle Adjani—so luminous in Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu (1979)—impressively portrays the mental deterioration of Victor Hugo’s daughter in The Story of Adele H (1975)…which, oddly, is not the only film in which we see Adjani go spectacularly mad, e.g., Possession (1981).

The two films not being shown are, fortuitously, both in the Bradley Video Library:  Fahrenheit 451 (1966), his love-it-or-hate-it adaptation of the late Ray Bradbury’s classic SF novel, featuring Werner, Julie Christie in a dual role, and another Herrmann score, and Small Change (1976), a largely improvised composite character study of the children in a small French town, played by non-actors, which is better than it sounds (at least to me).  Meanwhile, inspired by this outpouring of Truffaut-Amour, I’m doing something long overdue, dusting off some of the tapes I made when TCM devoted a similarly thorough marathon to Akira Kurosawa to honor his centennial back in 2010.  In this, at least, Madame BOF is my eager co-pilot, and we’ve already traveled back to the beginnings of his directorial career with The Most Beautiful (1944) and The Men Who Tread on the Tiger’s Tail (1945); on deck at the moment are my first viewings of Sanshiro Sugata Part Two (1945) and No Regrets for Our Youth (1946), plus One Wonderful Sunday (1947).

Addendum:  Film Forum did finally send me a printed schedule.  “Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles…”

Bradley out.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 31 other followers